Nonverbal
by MoonshoesWeasley
Summary: A reimagining of the S3 episode "The Return," in which Jim and Pam work through their communications, in a way. A sexy way.


"Do you still have feelings for her?"

He takes a pause, like he's considering his answer, even though he knows what he's going to say immediately. Nodding his head, he admits it out loud. "Yes." He doesn't look at Karen, can't look at Karen, because he knows that she'll look angry or hurt or both and he's never been good at that part.

Next to him, she sucks in a sharp breath and he feels her body stiffen. The air between them stiffens, too. "Are they—Is it...more? Than this?"

Those words send his stomach plummeting because they sound so much like the words he'd said to _her_. He knows what Karen is feeling because he's been there, too. And he's sorry, because he likes her, he really does. It's just not...there's just always been someone else. He doesn't say anything, though, doesn't think she'd appreciate being comforted by the similarity of their feelings: being rejected by someone you love.

Instead, he tells her the truth. It's about time. Karen never deserved to be his shield from Pam, but that's exactly how he used her. Even though it wasn't on purpose, even though he tried to move on, even though he has an entire laundry list of good intentions, he used her. So he figures that the least he can do is to finally be honest because she should be with someone who isn't dating her because of the distraction she provides.

"Yes. It's more. I'm sorry."

"Don't. Can we talk about it, or are we done?"

Breakups have never been his strong suit. Either he ends things harshly and abruptly or he drags them out because he hates knowing that he's hurt someone. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

He sighs. This sucks. "Yes, I do."

"You have to say it." That's what makes her so good at sales. She's resolute, she doesn't tiptoe around having people make firm commitments or concrete decisions. She doesn't take _maybe_ or _I'll have to call you back_ or _I don't know_ as an answer.

So he gives her an answer, kind of. "It's not going to go away. I've tried." She doesn't respond and he knows that she won't, so he sucks it up. "It's—I'm sorry, Karen. We're done."

She nods once. He's struck by her professionalism even when she's getting dumped, a little impressed by how high she holds her chin and the straightness of her spine. He stays in the conference room after she leaves and watches her talk to Toby and Michael from the corner of his eye. Toby looks sympathetic, Michael waves his arms and shouts something indistinguishable, and Karen gathers her bag and coat. She doesn't look at him as she leaves. He should feel worse than he does, probably. But he doesn't.

As he leaves the conference room, his eyes immediately search for Pam, a habit he was never really able to get out of. He spots her over on the far wall, near Meredith's desk. Their coworkers surround her, laughing and talking, but she's looking at him. She raises her eyebrows, knits them together in concern. He understands the question in the look she's giving him: _Everything okay?_

He shrugs his shoulders and offers her a small smile. _Yes. And no. Things'll be fine._ He can't help the spark of warmth that ignites in his chest at the ease with which they've slipped into their old habit of nonverbal communication.

She tilts her head towards the main door. _Karen?_

He makes a quick cutting motion across his throat. It's crass, but it gets the point across. _Broke up._

Her mouth pops open, a neat little _O_ of pink lips, white teeth, and the tiniest hint of wet tongue. _Oh._ She presses a hand to her chest and immediately starts fidgeting with the pendant of her necklace. The motion pushes aside the collar of her shirt and he catches a glimpse of her collarbone. It's hard to tear his eyes away from that tiny patch of skin, but he manages. Somehow. She looks down at the ground and he can tell by the way her body shifts that she's digging the toe of her shoe into the carpet. When she looks back up, her expression asks _are you okay?_ but her eyes are smiling (even though she's trying to hide it.)

He makes sure that their gazes are locked before he nods firmly. _Yes, I'm okay._

She smiles a tiny little smile at him and ducks her head, but he can still see the blush on her cheeks.

Later, when they're all in the conference room, she stands next to him. It feels purposeful. When Dwight takes his turn at the piñata and swings the broom handle in a wide arc around the room, she steps away from it and the back of her body brushes against the front of his. He puts a hand on her hip to steady her but lets it linger for longer than strictly necessary. She briefly stiffens underneath his hand, like she's surprised, but shifts her weight so that the hip he's touching pops out. He squeezes a little and he's not sure, but he thinks he can hear her breath catch.

They spend the rest of the party like that. They don't speak, not to each other, but they touch. Her hand on the back of his arm, his shoulder bumped against hers, their knees touching when they sit. He figures that those touches say everything that needs to be said right now.

The party winds down kind of early, mostly because of the snow. People trickle out and he sits at his desk and watches them leave. Toby walks by and gives him a look, and Jim promises that he'll come and speak with him next week. Even the camera crew leaves early, worried about traffic and being out in the weather. When they act like they're going to wait for him so they can all walk down together, Jim tells them that he needs to stay a little longer so he can finish a price list for a client. Really, he's waiting for the chance to be alone with Pam.

Because he feels like this thing they're doing—communicating without communicating—is precious and delicate and he has to grasp ahold of it before it slips away. Maybe this is how it's always supposed to have gone for them: no words, no declarations, just an implicit understanding in every look, every brush of fingers against fabric, every connection that one body makes with another. It's electric, coursing through the air and sending sparks across his skin in the places where she's touched him.

So whatever it is that's going to happen, it has to happen tonight. Before they leave. Before the question of _them_ is broken apart and dissected and discussed (and he knows it will be, eventually, because it should be) and the hurt comes to light and the blame is laid.

So he waits while Phyllis and Pam clean up after the party, even gets up and gathers the tattered remains of the piñatas around the bullpen to speed the process along. When he hears Pam say "don't worry about the dishes, Phyllis, I'll get them" he knows that she's waiting for the chance to be alone with him, too. He settles back in at his desk and sits in his chair a little bit expectantly, his legs splayed out and his elbows perched (what he hopes is) nonchalantly on the armrests.

Phyllis leaves shortly after, but not without winking at Jim as she passes. Pam actually washes the dishes (he thinks she must be nervous, which is understandable because he is, too) and he watches her through the kitchen window, observing the way she flicks her head to one side when a lock of hair falls into her eyes and the way her arm moves as she meticulously scrubs and dries. It's a little but hypnotizing, and he muses—not for the first time—that he could watch her do mundane tasks every day for the rest of his life and die a happy man. The automatic timer shuts the main overhead fluorescents off just as she gets finished and the office is lit by the soft glow of lamplight and computer monitors. The significance of that isn't lost on Jim.

She exits the kitchen slowly and he exhales even slower. The distance between his desk and the kitchen stretches out until it seems like miles, but she crosses it eventually and comes to stand just beyond the edge of his desk. Her fingers twist together anxiously and she won't look at him, so he extends one leg and taps the toe of her shoe with his. She looks up and smiles at him, the kind that he really likes where he can see her tongue poking out. He smiles back.

One of her eyebrows lifts up and she stops smiling so she can pull her bottom lip against her teeth. _Is this happening?_

He stops smiling, too, and slides his hands along the tops of his thighs. It's a little bit out of nervousness, but also in invitation. _This is happening._ He inclines his head towards her. _If you want it to._

She hesitates for half a second—he was scared of that. He opens his mouth to say something, to break the spell, but he's forgotten that she's Fancy New Beesly. She hasn't, though, and she reaches for him. That's all he needs. His hand flashes out and grasps one of her wrists and he barely registers how absolutely _tiny_ it is before she's in his lap. She has just enough time to gasp and then his mouth is on hers.

This kiss isn't like the last time, sweet and soft and desperate. Their teeth clack together and his tongue swipes below her lip line and it's a little awkward at first but quickly enough her lips open under his. He tastes her moan as it purrs across her tongue and onto his and he answers it with one of his own. One of her hands grips the collar of his shirt and the other threads into his hair. The sensation of her fingernails lightly scratching against his scalp sends a shiver down his spine and he grips her waist for dear life because otherwise he's going to melt or explode or float away, or something.

He doesn't, though, so he keeps kissing her because he knows now that kissing Pam Beesly is all he ever wants to do, for forever. He cups her face with his hands and holds her steady so that he can keep doing it, deeper and slower and harder and faster and anyway he can, it doesn't matter, because he can't get enough. His fingertips brush against the barrette holding her hair back and he indulges in a fantasy: he unclips it. It gets tossed aside somewhere—they'll find it later, maybe—and he finally finally _finally_ feels her hair between his fingers.

She pulls away so she can catch her breath and he takes the opportunity to kiss her jaw, her neck, her shoulder through her clothes, anywhere he can reach, his mouth open and hot and his tongue sliding against her skin. Her head rolls back and she clutches his head to her chest as he skirts his lips above the collar of her shirt. The buttons of her cardigan are so close, straining against her chest as she takes heaving breaths, and he tentatively taps his fingers against one of them. He looks up at her— _is this okay?_ —and she looks down at him— _yes yes yes_.

The buttons of both her sweater and her shirt are undone at lightning speed and he pushes her off of his lap so he can look at her. She braces herself on the edge of the desk, shirt falling open enough for him to see that she's wearing a bra that's heathered gray and simple, no lace or frills or bows or anything, and honestly, it's the sexiest piece of lingerie he's ever seen. There's just enough light there for him to see that the blush that starts high on her cheekbones ends below her collarbone, right at the tops of her breasts. She's lovely, beautiful, perfect. He doesn't hide the fact that he's drinking in the sight of her and she doesn't hide herself; she's bold in a way that he's never seen. So bold, in fact, that she keeps eye contact with him as she shrugs out of her shirt and cardigan and discards them both somewhere behind him.

And then she's kissing him again, her tongue pushing into his mouth and tasting him. Her fingers are wispy against his chest as she works her way down the buttons on his shirt. She forgets about the tie, though, so he fumbles with it until the knot comes undone and he can slide it of. Helping Pam Beesly take his clothes off is the hottest thing that's ever happened to him, until her hands brush against his belt as she reaches to untuck his shirt and he feels all the blood in his brain rush south.

She pulls away again and he misses her lips instantly and wants to protest, but then she's skimming her hands over his shoulders and beneath his shirt: _take this off._ He leans forward and helps her pull the sleeves from his wrists and laughs a little at her insistent tugging and the way she flings the offensive garment off to one side. Now it's her turn to look, and look she does. He watches her eyes, dark and heavy lidded, flick across his bare chest. Some of her boldness dissipates as she reaches out to touch him, tentatively, like she's scared he'll disappear.

He covers one of her small hands with one of his large ones. Her fingers flex against his skin as his wrap beneath her palm. It's a reassurance to both of them that yes, this is _real_ , not some elaborate lifelike fantasy that one or both of them concocted and are about to be rudely jerked out of.

Still, it's unbelievable to Jim that he's touching her, that she's touching him, that he's gliding his hands along the dip of her waist and around her back to unclasp her bra so he can bring it down her arms and toss it away. She is the most stunningly beautiful thing he's ever seen. He openly stares, committing the sight to memory ( _pale skin flared hips round breasts pink nipples perfect perfect perfect_ ) before he brackets her hips with his hands and puts his mouth on her skin. Her nipple against his tongue is intoxicating and he knows he will _never_ get enough, but he also knows he'll sure try. She's incredibly responsive, he can feel her harden under his wet ministrations, and he is pretty sure he's died and gone to heaven. And honestly, that would be perfectly fine by him, even if it meant an eternity at Dunder Mifflin. As long as it was like this, with the snow outside making the whole world quiet and the lights down low and Pam in his arms. Her skin under his hands is warm and soft and she's arching her back into his grip, pressing her breast into his mouth. She runs her palms across his shoulders, his neck, his upper back, leaving a burning trail everywhere she's touched him. He's getting drunk on the noises she's making, tiny whimpers and moans, and he pulls away so he can taste them.

He stands to kiss her and she snakes her arms around his neck, the motion bringing them skin to skin. His arms wrap around her, too, just like the last time they were kissing against a desk—with a few key differences, obviously. The sides of her breasts are beneath his fingertips and he rubs his thumbs across her skin, relishing the shudder he gets in response. It vibrates throughout his entire body but especially between his legs, where he's pretty sure he's as hard as he's ever been in his life. His hips jerk towards her of their own accord and the friction feels amazing, so he does it again on purpose. She positions herself so that one of her legs is between his and responds in kind, her skirt hiking up with every undulation of her hips. He can feel the heat of her against his thigh and now _this_ is the hottest thing that's ever happened to him.

But as much as she's giving as good as she's getting (and oh my _god_ does he want to give it to her _stop brain bad brain but holy shit I want to so bad_ ), he wants to be sure. He wants _her_ to be sure. He pulls away, kissing her lightly when she tries to follow him, but eventually her eyes meet his. His heart stops at the look on her face, and for a minute he's transported to the last time he had her backed against a desk with her body pressed to his. His heart stopped then, too, but because her expression had been one of panic and fear and worry and _I can't._ This time, though, she's looking at him with wide, shining eyes and a shy but beautific smile on her face.

It's a look that says _I love you._

She reaches up to cup his cheek and he has trouble breathing due to how much his heart swells. He leans his head into her hand and closes his eyes because it's just so much. He absorbs the feeling of her palm against his face, the tenderness of the gesture—even as they're half naked, partially atop his desk and pressed together as much as possible. It's overwhelming, to be like this with her, but also to see the way she's looking at him with an unguarded gaze and obvious love in her eyes. When he's finally able to catch his breath, he turns his head so that his lips can press into her palm. Her thumb brushes against his lips and he exhales a shaky sigh at the sensation. He looks at her again, then, and he knows that his expression is saying _I love you, too. Still._

They stay like that for a moment, just drinking each other in, both of them understanding that things are forever changed, for the better. That they're sorry. That there's so much to talk about, and that they're going to. That they _want_ this, not just the half naked on a desk this, but _this_ this. He presses his forehead against hers and they laugh a little, in happiness and disbelief and excitement and just everything.

And then the tightly stretched rubber band of want and lust and desire and love snaps.

She's kissing him again and her hips are searching for friction and in an instant he's pushing her back into the desk in earnest. Somewhere in the distance he hears the faint sound of things crashing to the floor, a million miles away. It doesn't matter, nothing matters except his tongue in her mouth and his hands on her calves and the way she has her ankles hooked behind him.

It's too much work for either of them to bother with unfastening her skirt, so he just shoves his hands underneath it until he finds the top of her tights. He drags them down until his fingers meet the waistband of her underwear and he drags those down, too. She raises her hips and he wants to go slow, wants to relish the sensation of his hands against her thighs and the way her nylons and panties bunch in his palms, but he also just _wants_. So he can't go slow, because it's just so overwhelming to have her underneath him so soft and pliant and warm and willing.

As her hands scrabble at his belt and slip beneath his waistband, he has a brief moment of clarity. Which is surprising, considering that he is coming _extremely_ close to...well, coming, because her hand has found its way to his briefs and she's stroking him over the fabric in a kind-of-innocent-but-mostly-sexy-as-hell way that's creating a dark curl in his gut, right below his belly button. So remembering that he has a condom in his wallet is a miracle, because his inner monologue is nothing but a hammering repeat of _Pam Pam Pam Pam Pam._ If anybody's brain got broken today, it was definitely Jim's.

He pulls his lips away from hers so he can reach for his wallet in his back pocket just as she tugs the elastic of his underwear down past his ass. His pants fall to the floor but his erection catches the fabric of his briefs so that when it finally pulls free, it bounces back against his lower abdomen almost proudly. And judging by the look on Pam's face—one of unabashed appreciation—he has a reason to feel proud. She reaches out and runs her fingers feather light along his length. He makes a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a sob, and his head falls forward to rest against her shoulder. He can feel her self-satisfied chuckle rumble in her throat when she touches him again and he groans against her skin.

His entire body is vibrating, like every cell is straining to be near her, touching her, inside of her. He can't wait any longer. She's still stroking him as he fumbles around in the various pockets of his wallet, and eventually he retrieves the tell-tale foil packet. When she pulls away from him a little, he's immediately worried that he misinterpreted everything, that she never meant for it to go this far, that she wants to stop. But then she's taking it from him and ripping it open and sliding one hand meticulously down his hardness before scooting to the edge of his desk and guiding him to her. He looks down, then, at the sight of her slick and ready for him, and watches as he disappears inside of her until he's buried to the hilt. There's no question about it: _this_ is the hottest thing that's ever happened to him.

It's almost immediately too much. Even through a thin layer of latex, she feels better than he ever could have imagined, so wet and tight and hot that he has to stay still for a few moments otherwise he's not going to last long. He wants to make sure it's good for her, too—because it's going to be amazing for him no matter what—so he reaches between them somewhat awkwardly and presses his fingers against her clit. He's worried a little about the angle, but she cries out sharply and snaps her hips towards him and he takes that as a good sign. Biology takes over then, his body aching to do what it's made for, so he starts thrusting.

Pam's head rolls back and he's mesmerized by the way her hair sways back and forth in time with every pump of his hips. Until, that is, he notices how her breast are bouncing, too, and then he's transfixed by that. He tries to keep his hand busy at the crux of their legs, he really does, but he just needs _more_ and maybe he's a little selfish in this moment, so he flattens his hands against her lower back and uses her for leverage so that he can find the friction he is desperately craving. Much too soon, he's dangerously close to falling over the edge, she's just so _perfect_ : her body and her hair and her little mewling sounds and her skirt hiked up around her waist and _holy shit she's touching herself, holy shit holy shit—_

He comes, hard, grunting in a probably decidedly unsexy way, but Pam doesn't seem to mind because her hand is flying and her hips are ratcheting erratically towards him, like she's close, too. He figures that the least he can do is keep pumping, even though he's spent and sensitive. He holds her as close as he can, their pants mingling in the air between them, and just as she starts to contract around him he presses his open mouth against the smooth column of her neck. Her free hand clutches at the back of his head as he laves her skin with his tongue and there will probably be a hickey there, later, but he's feeling a little bit possessive and he likes the idea of marking her, because there's no doubt in his mind now that she is his, just as he is hers.

After she comes, she collapses against him, boneless. He withdraws and his body immediately misses her tight heat, but it's placated by the way she feels against him as he gathers her to his chest and only a little awkwardly settles them both in his chair. They sit there silently, reveling.

There are things to talk about, of course, and confessions to be made and probably a few more tears to cry, but they'll be okay. Maybe it's the romantic in him, but he feels like being together isn't even a choice for them, it's just how it's supposed to be. And especially after what just happened against his desk? It's fate. He knows it.

So the conversations can wait, at least until they're cleaned up and dressed and settled somewhere away from cameras and coworkers and the past. Until then, there's only one thing he can think of to say, really, and as he brushes sweat slick curls away from her face and meets her eyes, bright with 50/50 post-coital bliss and love, he says it.

"Hi."


End file.
